


Emotions of Autumn

by GrantaireandHisBottle



Series: Crayons and Autumn [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Autumn, Colors, M/M, Melancholy, Smells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:52:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrantaireandHisBottle/pseuds/GrantaireandHisBottle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s autumn again in Paris and it affects Les Amis differently. Melancholy and desperate need of action. Cold hands and warm gazes. Paris as a silent author of the destinies. A study in colors and personalities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cold, but sunny

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ibbyliv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/gifts).



> This is going to be a collection of little studies in colors of the autumn for Les Amis. A bit melancholy, because I have a need to write something, but have so little inspiration, sorry.
> 
> For my beloved Jehan, whom I miss terribly.
> 
> Also I used the poem by Andrea Rieck and a part of Hamlet's soliloquy.

What can cause memories? Smells. They wake up senses. They give the light to the darkest corners of a mind, but not necessary illuminate those spots. 

What can cause a smile? Colors. They bring back the feelings. Not always good, but a smile eventually comes to the lips, because it is all over, because the fight is possible, a happy end is possible. Or it can cause feelings of the most amazing touches. Because every kiss, every hug has its own color. 

Then what can cause love? Sounds? Maybe, but which one? Sounds of a voice? Of the song in the depth of the eyes? Or is it an image? An image of the whole being? Of the invisible wings of silly hopes and believes? Of the fair justice messed with blood on the hands?

What cause the realization of the soul, trapped somewhere between ribs, heart, lungs and skin?

 

Jehan likes and is afraid of the autumn at the same time. He is in love with colors, but he is afraid of the melancholy of this season. He loves the inspiration, but he is afraid, that his poetry can change nothing, because when the autumn finishes, the world will be changed by itself. He loves the spirit and the magic of the orange and yellow together with red, but he can’t stand the end of it – the grey. 

All of the Les Amis is working hard now. The autumn brings back busyness and life changing ideas. The Universities, the works, long hours without rest, trying to earn some money. The youth of the most amazing people is brought to the ordinary reality. They laugh and smile and fight in their unique way. They try to change the world, but not their own world. 

The Artist slowly looks up at the sky. He is sitting on the pavement near the strange Flamme de la Liberté. The statue is located near the Pont de l'Alma and the Eifel Tower is beautiful from this angle. Grantaire likes to hide in the crowd of the tourists, mainly because those people don’t have troubles. They are relaxing, they are wasting their money, they are happy. Opposite to everything what Grantaire feels. So he tries to steal some of their airiness. 

The weather is cold already, but sunny. The lack of job and inspiration slowly eats all of the will, which has been left to Grantaire. The University takes all the money. Dirty Converse looks cheerful in the cold, shiny lights from the Sun.

The problem is, that Grantaire wants to work, wants to be useful. To earn money? Hardly. To get rid, to change that gaze, that coldness in the amber eyes. But those exact eyes break all strength and courage. Because, it is so important to have just a tiny bit of faith for yourself. Not only disgust, just because someone is weaker.

A group of tourist stops in front of the monument and some of them look at the Artist. The group consist of different people. There are an old couple, some teenagers, also lonely ones, who watches their neighbors with dim sadness. And a family with two kids. 

One of the two little boys, not listening his mother, runs to Grantaire and gives him a coin. The pale blue eyes pause on that coin, which lies on a tiny palm of a kid. Something inside that broken soul sobs. Of course the kid doesn’t mean anything bad. He has done that just because Grantaire looks poor. 

“Are you a performer?” the voice of the boy is a bit hoarse, he has probably caught a cold, because the weather is nasty. The guide of the group explains the history of the monument rather boring and loudly. The mother and the father of the kid look carefully at Grantaire. “Are you like that funny statues, who move when we give them money?”

“Oliver, honey, live the man alone.” The father with a pleasant voice says, toughing his son’s shoulder. The kid just shakes his head, watching Grantaire with interest in his eyes.

“Come on, Oli! ” his little brother whispers, hiding behind his mother.

Grantaire bites his bottom lip. He can feel how cold his hands are and how the wind play with his dark curls. “What do you want me to do?”

The boy Oliver smiles as Grantaire speaks. He reaches his other hand and touches the Artist’s forehead. The father jerkily grabs the hand of his child, mumbles “Excuse us” and drugs him away as the group slowly walks into the direction of the Eifel Tower. Oliver turns around and waves his hand, while his brother watches Grantaire with terrified face.

Some minutes later the dark-haired man sits still. The green hoodie protects him from the wind rather poorly, but he doesn’t care. Grantaire looks away, with the blank gaze, without noticing that he is whispering something.

“Am I a coward?  
Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across?  
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face?  
Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat,  
As deep as to the lungs? who does me this?”

 

Then the wind and a hopeless aftertaste makes Grantaire stands up quickly and goes away. He wipes his nose, shaking with cold and loneliness as he walks away. To drink or not to drink, that is the question. His pale lips twist in the parody on the smile as he thinks about the bottle. But then he remembers the reason why he wants to drink and why he can’t. And it is pretty much the same. 

Damn it. 

“Jehan? Hello, can I come to you? It’s cold outside.”

 

He hates being pathetic, asking help and being miserable. But Jehan is his friend and he always helps in his strangely amazing way. 

Half an hour later there is tea and a warm sweater, gingerbread and handwritings. A soft voice and a pleasant smile. Freckles and thin wrists. Big glasses and a ponytail. Also a big white piece of paper and crayons. An attempt to help, by drawing what is wrong with you. While crayons run across the paper there is a poem. The words fill the room, whispers in the corners, dance across a window.

“It’s autumn again  
The rain falls like our tears  
Can’t dry our eyes  
From the sky we descend 

It’s autumn again  
The sun shines then fails like us  
Our sight becomes a wintry gray  
Lost in darkness we will fade…”

And then Grantaire and Jehan laugh as they show each other their drawings and Grantaire feels a warm bubble in his chest. He knows that ember eyes are cold and distant, but he is trying his best to reach those stars. Jehan hugs and whispers “it’s all right to cry” and Grantaire hides his tears in the red, like the autumn itself, hair of his friend.

 

It’s autumn again.


	2. Feverish, but that will past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras has fever and Combeferre by his side. The rain doesn't care, but Grantaire does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is not a normal, good chapter. But as I say these are studies in colors and autumn, so that will do)

Autumn is just another season of the year. Seasons can’t make an influence on the work of human’s brain. They don’t have rights to put a human existence into a sticky melancholy. No, no, it’s not right, because there are essays to write, debates to arrange, there is a whole world, running without a plan or a tendency…

But there is also Combeferre, who is sitting near the bed in his brown pullover and glasses. There is a book in his hands and a big cup of tea. 

“Tell me it’s not because of the silly rain and this awful weather.”

A quiet chuckle. “Sorry, but I told you, you were going to catch a cold.” The big creamy cup ends up in cold fingers of Enjolras. 

The clock melodically catches the minutes, the hours and seconds. 

“Ferre?”

The chocolate brown eyes smiles, looking above the book. “Yes?”

“Can I read a book?” the voice is so weak and hoarse. And the lights are soft and relaxing, almost caring. 

Combeferre closes his own book and shifts himself closer to his ill friend. “Not now, Enjolras. Give yourself a break, your mind won’t rot, if you sleep an hour or two, believe me.”

Even with watery eyes and red nose Enjolras manages to look like everything is under his control. He shakes his head, licking his dry lips, while the nonchalant rain knocks their window. “Please. I don’t want to…” he coughs and Combeferre helps him, by taking his hand. Enjolras squeezes it and gasp for some air. “I don’t want to sleep, because I have dreams and then my head is so heavy…”

By the end of the sentence Enjolras falls forward and only Combeferre’s chest stops him from falling further.

Slightly wet golden curls, feverish red lips and warm, almost hot breathing. Combeferre carefully puts his friend back on the bed and sighs. 

“I can read you a book.” But Enjolras is already asleep. 

The hand of Combeferre is warm, but it manages to cool of the heat of the Enjolras’s cheeks. Brown eyes sadly watches his Revolutionary Brother and his lips form a smile. Caring and loving.

The shadows dance around the lamp and two figures, the wind sings a requiem for a summer. The pages of a book tell its story, about fighting and logic. Combeferre sighs as thoughts cross his mind, reflecting in the depth of his pupils.

And then there is a careful knock. A knock of a person, who is afraid, but knows exactly that there is no way to go back. 

And there is only one person, who can do that.

When Combeferre opens the door, he sees the autumn itself. Wet and lost, but with the last hint of the warm breath of the summer in the careful eyes. Trembling from cold and the thought that he is unwelcome here, Grantaire wipes off the raindrops from his forehead. “Is he going to be alright?”

“Come in.” 

There is an open door between them. Warm lights opposite the loneliness and cold reflections in the puddles.

“I can’t.”

The sound of a given up person. 

“Come in, Grantaire.”

Maybe the sound of his own name makes him close his eyes and step inside. Or maybe a little, almost invisible hope in the middle of his soul, on that crack or a line, gives him courage. That one, which divides two parts of his broken heart. 

But Grantaire refuses to come inside the room, where the Fallen Apollo is lying. He just gives Combeferre a plastic back with oranges, milk chocolate, purple flowers, a jar of blueberry jam, still warm pancakes, coffee and other improbable stuff. Combeferre watches the variety of colors and all the feelings, which were packed in this bag. 

“Grantaire?” The Artist looks at him, biting his lips. “He will be fine, believe me.” Very carefully, like if is afraid of scaring the Artist, Combeferre takes Grantaire’s hand and they walk into the room.

The Room, which hides the broken Revolutionary. But it’s only a fever. He will over throw the government very soon.

Grantaire doesn’t listen. He doesn’t look like the ordinary cynic Grantaire. This one is caring so much that he is afraid to breath. 

“Combeferre?” he whispers and his words sound as feverish as Enjolras’s and they burn the skin of Combeferre. “Help him, whatever it takes, help, save him...” 

One last quick glance and flushed cheeks and then the door is shut again, only a big plastic bag is left. And whispers in Combeferre’s ears. 

“Don’t tell him.” 

 

And the figure is running again. One part of the broken heart is left in the warm room. It’s okay. It should be like that.


	3. Pancakes and Inferno

When there is a hole in the right shoe, even the smallest puddle can cause a great amount of problems. You can catch a cold, because your leg is wet and the water is freaking cold. The cold leads to the necessity of using medicine and drugs. And there is no money for that.

That’s why the blond teenager jumps over the puddles, half of his face is hidden by the dark green scarf, which smells of cigarettes and oil pains. The grey color eats all the sky and trees and people’s emotions. The autumn has no sense of humor. Or even if it has, then it’s a rather poor one.

Gavroche inhales the smells of Paris. Most of them are familiar to him. People’s business and greed always smell the same. In the autumn he can also feel the rich smell of leather boots and gloves, expensive perfumes and hints of silk scarves. And in such moments, old dark green scarf of R is the most amazing and unique, the most human thing in the whole Paris. In the city, which is slowly drowning in expensive melancholy.

 

But on the other side of this city, a pair of amber eyes slowly opens. There are no creamy lights in the room, because the morning hides them with its dirty grey colors. But in the room there is still warm and smells pleasantly. It has a smell of pancakes.

Neither Combeferre, nor Enjolras can make good-tasting pancakes.

But the smell tickles his half-breathing nose, the warmth of the blanket caresses bare feet and the dizziness in the head makes his mind work slowly.

 

Jehan is playing the piano. Or maybe, the piano is teasing him, making sounds by using the strings of his soul. The forgotten melody dances around the thin figure, making spirals around his wrists and fingers. The notes are rising and falling like yellow and red and orange leaves. The leaves outside fall in the key of A minor.

And Jehan is wearing different socks. Colorful, but from different pairs.

 

When the little buzz climbs out Grantaire’s pocket and wakes him up, his heart skips several beats. Words in the message make him hesitate, feel being betrayed, yet so incredibly happy. He jerkily sits up on his bed, reading it again. There is book near his so called pillow. “Faust”. And there are paint stains on his fingers. He has been sleeping fully closed. Dirty Converse lies near the bed together with an apple, which has been bitten only once. The message or it is more correct to say, the eyes of Grantaire radiate warmth. His cheek flush and he hide his face in hands. Grantaire can feel his unshaved chin and racing heart, as well as the sound of his healing heart. Just a bit, just a ghost of a hope and yet it manages to do a miracle. An ordinary sms from an Apollo himself. Alive and breathing, full of disgust towards him, but he is alive and probably the fever has gone!

 

_Thank you. They are delicious._

And Grantaire forgets about strange creatures in his dream. He runs away from the Hell and the most Powerful Angel of the Lord from his feverish dream. He immediately throws away the image of broken black wings on his back. After all it’s only a dream, a hangover, which helps him not to feel his misery and dreadful pain the heart. The bloody cold weather, making him shivering. 

And the thought about being on the ninth circle of Hell vanishes. Because he, Grantaire, can start all over again. Who cares about the damn weather, huh? There is nothing to do with melancholy and his thoughts! Once again he is going to prove Apollo that he is not useless.

Only to receive a dead look and fall to the ninth circle of Hell once again. 

 

Ember eyes soften just a bit and so terrifically a lot for the cynic, when he reads a reply. The strange thought about the jar of jam and flowers flickers in Enjolras’s mind. Apollo looks away, feeling weak and confused and so warm in his bed, but not in his heart. There, inside the Revolutionary heart is a storm.

 

_Get well soon, please._


	4. Wine and Revolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't checked it, I am sorry. And maybe I will change it tomorrow.

The sky is blue. So painfully blue, so wrongly, because it’s autumn. But the skies are infinite and rather cheerful. If you run, people will change, thoughts will be changed, but the sky…It can’t be changed by humans, by their destinies, friendships and love. Only by seasons, by time. By autumn in some way.

But autumn is cruel. It hides the stars, because they are the spectators of the summer.

And now, the sky is so painfully clear, opposite to the life below. 

The Sun dances on the already dead leaves, it jumps on the pale cheeks of already old soul in the young body. It illuminates the gaze and the misery.

Sometimes the movements: running, walking and stepping is so alike the dance. In those moments, emotions on the face accompany that dance.

The thin figure is running. The sun is dancing. The heart is beating. Grantaire is running.

 

Combeferre wears a sweater. It looks like the fallen, yet beautiful leaves. Not yellow, but sunny and the very soft. His glasses are on. And brown trousers. 

Enjolras is asleep, covered with a blanket. His unconscious hand squeezes the cold metal of the mobile phone. Combeferre knows that right now his friend needs someone else. They are going to fight, to hate, to care and to hold each other. To speak and maybe, Combeferre covers Enjolras’s hand with his blanket, they will hug. Because it is all about autumn. 

Strong tea on the lips and the smell of incredibly fresh air for breakfast. There is nothing to deal with autumn. Grantaire is a wild and strange part of their life. It is alright to fall in love with him. As well as it is perfectly fine to argue with him. To cry so loudly at him, losing your voice, because he doesn’t give a simply try to understand your ideas.

Unless he does. Hiding himself in the bottle and cover his fingertips in paints. Hiding from your ember, sharp eyes. They are killing him, Enjolras. To believe, does not mean to say aloud what is inside the Revolutionary heart.

A watch on the wrist, keys in the pocket, but an opened door, because he is coming and I am trusting him, Enjolras as much as you do. 

 

When he is standing in front of the door, the heart is silent, there is no air left in the lungs. 

“Enjolras…”

It is a whisper. A sob. From a coward. 

“I don’t want to yell at you.”

A reflection in the mirror. The figure in the hoodie, breathing heavily. 

“I do want you to believe though. Don’t leave.”

The Sun dances inside the pupils.

“Without your bloody sarcastic smiles my speeches are too good. Grantaire?”

Slowly, almost immediately, he looks at those amber eyes.

“Don’t leave me. Because I have fever and I am afraid.”

“You can’t. I believe in you. You are Apollo.”

The slightest touch of the fingertips. 

“I am afraid, I’ve fucked everything up.”

Suddenly he is holding the broken Apollo in his hands.

“It’s all because of autumn.”

“It’s nothing to deal with autumn. Your hands are warm.”

“Enjolras?” The golden hair is soft under his chin. “Can I love you?”

A tight grip of the fingers, covered in oil paints. Then a nod, determined and emotional. “Sometimes you are such a fool.”

“I have a good teacher.”

The sky is infinitive, just like someone’s souls, which cross the centuries to feel the hand, the lips, the hearts. To kiss those red lips and smell that golden hair. To compare the bitterness of the life and the bittersweet cynical hoarse voice. 

Hands are lost in soft curls, while Apollo’s are resting near the heart, above the old, but warm hoodie. Enjolras knows they are always fighting. They are always heroes. Just for one day, for one hour or a second, but they are always there. Red and dark green. Like late summer or an old, rich wine and a passionate autumn, full of revolutionary ideas.


End file.
